


but it won't be too long

by jinkandtherebels



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29616237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinkandtherebels/pseuds/jinkandtherebels
Summary: In life he had been Aristos Achaion, the best of the Greeks, a slayer of armies, and he had not known what it meant to be afraid.He had not truly understood how much he had to lose.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	but it won't be too long

**Author's Note:**

> It was really only a matter of time before I wrote Patrochilles fic, seeing as The Song of Achilles still kicks my ass years after I first read it! This one has spoilers for pretty much all of the main Hades storylines, so proceed with caution. Hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> TW: one blink-and-you-miss-it suicide attempt...it was in the Iliad so I included it here.

When the wing-heeled god himself comes and offers to lead him to the Underworld, Achilles has only one question: _Where?_

Lord Hermes wrinkles his nose—no doubt unused to mortals questioning much of anything in his divine presence—but he answers swiftly, as he does everything swiftly:

“To the Elysium Fields, of course.”

The shade of Achilles shakes his head.

 _No_ , he says, with the last of the arrogance that is a demigod’s birthright. _Take me to the God of the Dead._

Gods in general do not take well to being commanded by mortals. But he is fortunate that among Hermes’ many epithets there is one that means _giver of joy_ —or perhaps it is simply that the gods’ messenger doesn’t wish to waste any further time on him.

He is taken to the House of Hades in what feels like a blink. Lord Hermes leaves him in a slow-drifting line of ghostly figures, all awaiting their own audience with the king under the earth, and is gone before Achilles has the chance to thank him.

He is left to wait. He quickly understands why Hermes wouldn’t wish to linger.

His fellow shades distract themselves with idle conversation, openly admiring the jewel-encrusted walls, the gold inlay of the ebony floors, the sickly green glow of Ixion’s light that floods the rooms. But Achilles is a prince born and bred, his mother a sea goddess who used to dredge up the ocean’s treasures on a whim to make him smile, and he is not distracted. He would grind his teeth if he could. There is only one thought in his head, and it consumes him.

 _Patroclus_. _You have suffered for too long already_.

It feels like an eternity has passed before his time comes. Perhaps it has, but all such musings flee his mind as he stares up, and up, and _up_ at the towering Lord of the Dead. His bloodred eyes glare down at Achilles with an utter dearth of pity.

The voice of Hades, when it comes, is thunderous.

“Well?” he demands, impatient already. “Speak your piece.”

He is—he _was_ a prince of Phthia, Achilles reminds himself. Divine blood flowed through his veins. In life he had been _Aristos Achaion_ , the best of the Greeks, a slayer of armies, and he had not known what it meant to be afraid.

He had not truly understood how much he had to lose.

 _Let me be my old self just once more_ , he thinks, _and then let him turn to dust like the ashes of our bones_.

Yet Achilles knows instinctively that this is one of the few gods who will not be impressed with brashness and boasting. He kneels instead.

“Lord Hades,” he begins. “I would offer you my service, in all humility. I am Achilles Pelides. Perhaps word of me has reached you.”

“Word of the mess you’ve made, with several of my relatives encouraging you,” Hades replies. The words are bitter enough to taste. “Yes, I have noticed. You’ve sent countless shades to my domain these past ten years. My workload hasn’t been so great since the fall of the Titans.” He drums his fingers heavily on the great wooden desk. “Much has been made of your arrogance, yet you say you would offer humility. What services do you believe yourself capable of providing?”

“I was known in life for my skills as a warrior,” Achilles answers. “I am confident in my ability to best any you see fit to set against me. I would offer myself as a guard, to ensure that none pass beyond doorways that you would rather keep shut.”

Hades narrows his eyes dangerously. “You dare suggest that I cannot enforce the laws of my own realm?”

The very air around him seems to vibrate with the force of the god’s anger, but Achilles cannot afford to panic. He cannot fail Patroclus again.

“I would not dare,” he says, long years of soldiering keeping his voice calm. “But surely my lord has many pressing duties that demand his attention. In this small way, I would assist in maintaining the greatness of this House.”

The scowl does not leave Hades’ face, and Achilles wonders briefly if he’s about to be hurled down to the pits of Tartarus, all his nobler hopes be damned, when another voice joins the conversation.

“That sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” the voice says, and Achilles cranes his neck to see a woman that he hadn’t noticed before—a goddess, small where Hades is large, light where he is dark, yet she commands the space around her as surely as he does. Her eyes are verdant green when she looks at him.

“My lord complains often of his endless work,” she says, with the air of one sharing a private confidence. “I believe you would be doing him a favor. Go on.”

Achilles glances at Hades again, but the Lord of the Underworld, aside from a wordless grumble, seems bizarrely content to allow this woman to take over. He decides not to question it.

“Dread lady,” he greets her, bowing his head once more. “I would be my master’s eyes and ears. I will learn anything he wishes to know. Anything he prefers me not to know will be swiftly forgotten. I will serve him, and this House, with undying loyalty.”

That gets a laugh out of her; it is a sparkling thing, like the glitter of a rushing river.

“An interesting choice of phrase,” she says, “but the sentiment is duly felt, Achilles Pelides.” Her gaze sharpens. “You’ll forgive me for asking, but…why? The hero of the Trojan War would have a place in Elysium for all time. You would walk alongside all the heroes of history there, and want for nothing. Why would you choose an eternity of service instead?”

He must tread carefully here, Achilles knows. He would not have dreamed of attempting such a thing, except—they have all heard the tales of Orpheus and his Eurydice. There is a chance, however slim, that the God of the Dead can be swayed.

He turns his eyes back to Hades and musters the last of his courage.

“In exchange for my eternal fealty, I would beg an indulgence of you,” he says.

Hades snorts. “A favor,” he barks. “Of course. It is always that.”

“A small thing,” Achilles insists. “Only one thing, I swear it.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Hades declares, and then Achilles does panic. There will be no second chances for him once this audience is done.

“I want my place in Elysium given to another,” he says in a breathless rush. “I want him to have the afterlife that I was to have. That is all. _Please_.”

Hades looks unconvinced, but the woman at his side puts a hand on his arm, and he says nothing. Achilles remains frozen, terrified that all of this was for nothing, as the two immortals have a silent conversation between them.

“That is an unusual request,” the goddess says at last. “Who is it that you would exchange places with?”

“Patroclus,” Achilles says softly. “A mortal, the son of Menoetius. We fought together at Troy.”

“And why would you do such a thing for his sake?”

The question, to his surprise, comes from Hades. Achilles meets his eyes evenly.

“Because he deserves the honor far more than I,” he says.

His mother Thetis had been fond of disparaging Patroclus for his lack of divinity, which doomed him to an early death regardless of the war. Mortality disgusted her. Achilles, being mostly mortal himself, had never understood. But in this one thing she had been correct: a mortal, born of mortals, could never hope to find rest in the fields of Elysium. That hallowed place was reserved for the children and grandchildren of gods, great heroes made so by their divine abilities and strength.

Patroclus had been a fine warrior and a good man (the best, the kindest of men), but neither of those things could take the place of godhead. Achilles cannot bear the thought of him wasting away in the grim plains of Asphodel—or worse, Tartarus, if one of the gods had been feeling particularly vengeful.

He had deserved life. Failing that, Achilles will give him this honor, so that his name will be spoken always.

“So be it,” Lord Hades says suddenly. His voice rings out in the cavernous hall. “I forge a pact with you here and now. I command that you serve this House for as long as it stands, and never go beyond its walls. In exchange, the shade Patroclus Menotiades will be given your place in the Elysium Fields, effective immediately.”

Achilles feels the weight of the words the instant they are said, as if invisible shackles now chain him to these halls. The woman at Hades’ side is looking down at him with something unreadable in her eyes. He bows deeply to them both.

“You have my eternal gratitude, Lord Hades,” he says, and means it down to his soul.

“I would prefer your eternal loyalty,” Hades replies darkly. “Competence would also be appreciated.”

Achilles lowers his head in assent.

.

Things rarely change in the Underworld. Achilles learns to measure time not by the rising and setting of a sun that does not reach this deep, nor by the nebulous concept of hours and minutes, but by major events—those incredibly rare times when something disturbs the perpetually steady routine of the House. Like a boulder dropped into an otherwise still pond. Tidal waves can grow from such ripples.

The first such event comes when a child is born to the Lord of the Underworld and the shining goddess always at his side, the lady Persephone whom Achilles had learned to call his queen.

The second comes shortly afterward when that child dies and Persephone disappears, plunging the House and its master into mournful darkness.

The third, when Zagreus is returned to them by virtue of Nyx’s indomitable powers; and the fourth, when the young god decides to try his mettle by escaping the Underworld altogether; and the fifth, when he succeeds in his goal and brings their shining queen back to them.

(Achilles muses that things have begun to change far more frequently since Zagreus was born. Since he came into his own. Even Orpheus has ceased to be constantly mournful since his reunion with Eurydice. He meets Achilles’ eyes sometimes across the length of the hall, looking almost guilty, and Achilles knows he is remembering their only extended conversation.

The two of them, both on a break at the same time and having nothing better to do, had gotten slightly drunk on nectar, and Achilles had begun to wax lyrical about Patroclus—as he always had while inebriated, even when he was alive. Orpheus had watched him indulgently for a while before asking, uncharacteristically gentle, “What happened to him?”

“I lost him,” Achilles had answered hoarsely. “And it was my own fault.”

“Ah.” The musician’s nod had been grave, his expression serious. “I know that feeling all too well, my friend.” And he’d poured them both another glass.

They hadn’t said much else, then or since. Achilles wishes he could tell Orpheus now that there is no need to feel guilty that he has his own beloved back. He wants to tell him that far from being a twist of the knife, Orpheus’s pact breaking has given Achilles the courage to hope again.)

And now Zagreus is hurrying towards him with a beaming smile, and Achilles senses that a sixth event is about to take place.

Sure enough: the pact is broken. Achilles is free to go wherever and whenever he likes.

Achilles knows it already. He had felt it the moment the weight of Hades’ words lifted from his soul, but it does not feel real until Zagreus tells him that it is. That he had seen the oath rendered null and void by virtue of his own considerable authority. Achilles feels a surge of affection so strong that it shows on his face, if Zagreus’s pleased grin is any indication—and behind that, like a great wave bearing down on unsuspecting swimmers, an equally strong surge of fear.

But fear is for the weak. Zagreus tells him to go, and Achilles does not hesitate. He goes.

.

He has never seen Elysium before. It is as green and beautiful a place as he’d imagined. Peaceful.

Too peaceful, if truth be told. At first Achilles wonders if the warrior shades have yet to reconstitute themselves after the lad’s latest sacking; but no, the rooms he passes through are unscathed, the pillars in one piece, so it can’t be that. It takes him five chambers to realize that the shades have no reason to accost him because he is _allowed_ to be here—allowed to wander as he wishes, even outside of the House.

For the first time he truly understands the reality of the pact breaking: this freedom to go where he wills. A freedom that he hasn’t had since he died.

He crosses another room and enters a glade. There is a marble statue surrounded by offerings, and a sapphire waterfall beyond an emerald hill, and the heavy sort of silence that belies another person’s presence.

Achilles hasn’t needed to breathe in a long time, but he feels his throat catch all the same.

He crests the hill and Patroclus is there. He sits in the grass and leans back on his hands, head tipped back and his eyes closed. He doesn’t open his eyes even as he speaks.

“Is that you again, stranger?”

Hearing his voice is almost too much. The sight of Patroclus _whole_ again is almost too much, when the last time Achilles saw him was—

.

_They bring him back a corpse and tell him it is his beloved, and Achilles falls to his knees._

_They bring him back with a spear wound ugly and open in his chest, insides halfway to spilling out and the life already fled from him; his kind face is drained of blood, his expression like one asleep, but Achilles has known death intimately for ten long years. He has dealt death with his own hands for longer. He knows better._

_He should have known better. Patroclus is dead and it is his fault._

_The horrible knowledge drives into him like a sword, drowning out the words of his companions. What good are they to him now? They have brought him back a corpse. This lifeless doll is all he will ever have of Patroclus again._

_He reaches for a knife to slit his own throat—but one of the others stops his wrist, and Achilles’ vision blurs with rage and grief both._

_Grief quickly wins out._

_He begins to scream instead of dying, instead of flinging himself at the men who have brought him back a corpse until they have no choice but to put him down like a rabid dog. He screams instead of tearing off to the battlefield in the dead of night and ripping Hector’s throat out with his teeth. He beats dirt into his clothes and tears at his hair and screams loud enough to wake the gods themselves, the cruelly dispassionate gods who allowed this to happen._

_Patroclus, he screams, knowing for the first time that there will be no answer; Patroclus, Patroclus—_

.

“Patroclus,” he says, his voice thick.

Patroclus opens his eyes.

Achilles doesn’t move as he gets to his feet. Patroclus moves slowly, as if in a dream, and says nothing. Soon he is close enough for Achilles to feel his breath, though his expression is impossible to read. Achilles half expects to be struck. He would not defend against it; he deserves it, and worse, and would welcome even retribution if it came at Patroclus’s hands—

But then those hands are reaching for him, and Patroclus lets out a noise like a sob and pulls him into a fierce embrace, so tight it could crush his lungs. _Let it_ , Achilles thinks, somewhat hysterically; _it’s not as if I need them anymore_.

Certainly breathing air could never compare to this: the feeling of being held, and cherished, and whole.

There are tears on his face. He knows he’s not alone in that.

“Pat,” he whispers into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. It’s been so long, please forgive me—”

“Hush,” Patroclus says, sounding choked. “You know how long I’ve waited for this. Don’t ruin it by apologizing now.”

He doesn’t know how long they stand there like that. It could be another eternity. It doesn’t feel nearly long enough.

Finally Patroclus pulls back, cups his face in both hands and looks at Achilles with something like wonder.

“So the gods have finally seen fit to return you to me,” he says softly.

“One god,” Achilles corrects him. “And I— _we_ owe him more than I can begin to explain, but—Pat, are you truly not angry?” He swallows hard. _Fear is for the weak_. “You’ve every right to be.”

Patroclus’s hands have gone to his arms, as if he’s reluctant to stop touching him. His grip tightens briefly at the question.

“I _was_ angry,” he says quietly. “I was angry with you for a long time. And I was…empty, I think, for longer.” His eyes are so warm. “We have both suffered for our choices, Achilles. I have no desire to waste any more time.”

“Then you still—” He stops. The words are foolish and childish, and he cannot force them from his mouth, so he tries another way. “You could have simply forgotten. You could have drunk from the river Lethe any number of times, and been at peace. Why didn’t you?”

The look Patroclus gives him then is achingly familiar—a wry expression that says, quite clearly, _I have yoked myself to an utter fool_. (Achilles has tried to picture that look in his mind so many times he’s lost count.)

But Patroclus sobers when he realizes it was not an idle question. He takes Achilles’ hands in his.

“You are half of my soul,” he murmurs. “As the poets say. And you should have known better than to think I would ever find peace here without you.” There’s a flicker of old anger in his eyes, but it’s gone in a blink. “Memories were all I had left of you. I would have died again rather than give them up.”

Achilles closes his eyes and rests their foreheads together, not bothering to hide the tears as they come again. The last of the weight on his soul has lifted with those words, a weight he hadn’t even noticed was present—one that had been there since before he ever entered the House of Hades.

There are more words that should pass between them, he knows, but for now all he can think about is tangling his hands in Patroclus’s hair and kissing him. Patroclus sighs into his mouth. Their bodies come together easily, as if it hasn’t been countless years since they touched.

Achilles knows he is smiling. He feels every ache in his heart beginning to ease. He lets Patroclus bear him gently down to the cool grass of Elysium, and it feels just like it did when they were alive together—like they are two gods in their own right. Defying the Fates. Remaking the world around them.

Remaking each other whole, at last.


End file.
